BBCSH 'Transition' Part 2 of 'Flirting'
by tigersilver
Summary: The second of a small exercise in definitions, common, as applied by a genius, uncommon.


BBCSH 'Transition'

_de·vo·tion _

_/diˈvōSHən/_

_Noun_

· _Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity, or cause._

· _Religious worship or observance._

_Synonyms_

_loyalty - dedication - attachment - adherence – piety_

No. No. No.

Wrong!

Overnight bag duly packed, Sherlock slides onto the such-and-such train from Paddington scheduled to arrive at Cardiff some hours after John. But also timed well within the window of preventing John from pulling a random individual, along with his usual restorative pint or two he always partakes of when travelling.

Sherlock sighs at his kneecaps, where he's tucked them under his chin, and maintains his balance with ease through a curvy wobble. Pints and pulling, they go hand-in-glove for the doctor. And some things barely deserve deduction, really.

He observes his kneecaps with some large degree of patent disgust and snarls at them quietly, earning a startled glance from another passenger—which Sherlock shrugs off as bloody typical. Morons. The lot of them.

'Flirting' is _not_ on.

Wrong word.

Try again.

Try…what, then?

His housekeeper has tentatively suggested several other words, any one of which may be more to the point: 'affection', 'devotion', 'seduction' and—strangely—'honesty'. That last is completely out the question, of course, as Sherlock is literally unable to be accurately honest as to his urge to express to John an emotion even _he_ cannot quite define.

Paradox. Circular logic. Sherlock hates it, with a passion.

He is also, possibly, unwilling.

His willingness or 'un' Sherlock wisely tables for the moment: insufficient evidence, barely comprehensible area of operations, some knotty problems are meant to be Gordian.

Furthermore, Sherlock has come to believe his landlady is perhaps a bit skewed in her perceptions. There was a great deal of weak-brained nonsense bruited about as to the typical ages-and-stages of romantic relationships, particularly as portrayed on crap telly. And in some film called _Casablanca_. And, as by a bloke known as 'James Bond'. Who is, as Sherlock recalls from the very furthest fringes of his feeble horde of pop culture references, fictional, and also somewhat of a wanker, really, when it devolved down to the ladies, but considered to be terribly sexy nonetheless. Mrs Hudson seems to feel this Bond fellow and Sherlock may own certain traits in common, but, as she states, she finds this highly forgivable, as Sherlock is a 'dear, dear boy, Sherlock, if a little…unusual. Yes, you are—_don't _deny it.' And also has gone on to patiently observe he apparently 'means no harm by it.'

Sherlock scowls out the window, abandoning his own joints to stare blankly. The glass is streaked with rain, naturally. And the scenery beyond is stupidly dull, as it whizzes by. Of _course_.

People, even Mrs Hudson, cannot seem to really grab onto a firm grasp of _any_ given concept or idea, at least not sufficient to express it properly. That is an issue with these definitions. They all depend upon other definitions and voila! Once again, circular logic. What precisely_ is_ this 'it' she speaks of, by which Sherlock means no harm? The 'dear boy' or the 'unusual'? And how does that relate specifically to Sherlock's flatmate? It makes no proper sense!

Perturbed and choosing not be unduly flummoxed, Sherlock occupies the remainder of the journey with rearranging John's booking to his own liking and then firmly sorting all associated charges over to his elder brother's one expenditures account. As the man they seek is purported a double-agent. QED, Mycroft is liable, clearly.

And then the detective naps, ever so briefly, so as to be daisy-fresh when he seeks out his good friend Dr Watson.

"**Hoi**! What're _you_ doing here, Sherlock?"

In the absence of data, there is always the challenge to track such down. Or, as in this instance, gallop down the Dr John Watson in question in his temporary den: the Angel.

"And how'd you get in—oh, never mind. I_ know_ how you got in." The gentleman, though still a bit bleary-eyed from the kip Sherlock has apparently wrested him from, is back on form—and on his feet—in an instant. "Great git. You could've at least texted me."

He marches toward Sherlock with a light in his eye that may or may not be a welcoming one; certainly there's a hint of long-suffering acceptance there.

"Never assume," Sherlock retorts in his best cheese-eating drawl. He flaps his brand new key card at his flatmate and nearly whacks him in the nose with it. "Observe. Perfectly valid means of ingress, dearest husband."

He shoots a sharp look at John, who is busy enough with simply blinking at him. "'Hem" Sherlock coughs gently before John's lips part sufficient to issue unnecessary blather. "Any progress?"

John, that estimable man, does _not _instantly leap at Sherlock's newly cleared throat and throttle him, which is all to the good.

"Very little" he replies instantly, frowning heavily. "Your bird's flown, Sherlock." No, he answers the question instead, which is only one the lovely things about John, and he's only just clenching the one hand into a quiet fist by his upper thigh, which is also to the good. Sherlock takes heart despite his professional disappointment and rocks back his heels, just in case. "Yesterday, as a matter of fact. I was actually thinking I might as well co—"

"Don't bother," Sherlock snaps, spinning about to examine the room he's now to share with his flatmate. It's not shabby, certainly, and the en suite looks to be quite deluxe. "Order in some room service, instead. I find I'm terribly peckish, strangely, and we may as well stay here overnight. Oh, and pardon—loo, you know?" He flaps his hands about, leaving go of his overnight, and strives to come across to his doctor friend as his utter, utmost charming. "Trains, John," he smiles, confidingly. "They have the alarming habit of making a chap's guts slosh."

John opens his mouth, but no words issue forth.

The other hand clenches, as well, and rises in a meaningful fashion, but Sherlock's dancing well out of range, having anticipated that, cheers.

Having effectively spiked John's guns, large and small, long and short-range, Sherlock executes an elegantly fast retreat to the lovely lav, making certain to secure the door behind him. He runs the tub faucet to disguise his own rather inelegant spate of chuckles as he rips off his suit and so forth with a casual abandon, flinging them about.

Brilliant!

As he goes, Sherlock notes the Angel offers a rather nice line of toiletry product. Doubly brilliant, then. He can likely stay tucked away in the loo until well past any possible sensible leave-taking time John might arrange for (the tapping of the laptop keys, barely audible over the rush of water, gives that useless, pointless endeavour of John's well away. Again—John_ is_ an idiot. But he_ is_ Sherlock's.)

With a surge of deep fondness, Sherlock grins as he eases his length into the tubful of steamy water, laced with some pleasantly odiferous oil that is likely orchid-based.

Very _nice_.

A simple cock of the head and some active listening and Sherlock's good temper is even further elevated. His defeated flatmate is now in process of ordering in room service; he's got a fancy supper to look forward to….in—Sherlock estimates—just under an hour.

Excellent.

Why he's feeling hunger pangs, Sherlock doesn't quite know. John had made certain to force-feed him tea and toast just yesterday, and he should've been set well into the morrow.

But…never mind it. Fact remains he _could _eat, and that is exactly the sort of activity his flatmate truly appreciates, when Sherlock deigns to do it. And whilst the act of stuffing one's maw may be considered 'flirting', by some, in this case Sherlock rather thinks John will understand it differently.

'Devotion', then, as _Sherlock_ has understood it to be defined. He is a perfect example, no?

The first, _not_ the second….hmm.

Right, maybe possibly a hint of the second, as well.

In any event, the detective is more than a little smug over it, his accomplishment. He believes he may've also managed to nail down a marked conveyance of 'affection', as well.

John has procured for him the most expensive thing on the menu, after all.

Points doubled, then.

Yes! Indeed. This precipitous, completely impulsive journey of his may very well prove to be immensely intriguing, all of it. Far superior to the double-agent, who is likely really only very dull and not been done in at all, only scarpered.

Having notched two invisible but highly triumphant lines in the thin steamy air above the tub's surface, Sherlock steeples his dripping fingers below his humid jaw-line and settles in for a nice bout of aromatic water-wrinkling. With cogitation as a side dish.

Although not 'flirtation', per se, this current course seems eminently viable.

Really, he might even consider attempting another definition on his hapless John, a little farther down the pike. Erm, euphemistically.

'Seduction', was it? His housekeeper said? Oh…_yes_.


End file.
